


I've Lived Inside this Cell

by por_queeee



Series: A Hard Way to Fall [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash, Prison, Sexual Repression, Toulon Era, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2014620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert's first encounter as a guard in Toulon with both 24601 and the lash. Warnings for violence and reference to poor living conditions.</p><p>Formerly chapter 1 of A Hard Way to Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Lived Inside this Cell

_I've been up and down in prison_  
 _I've lived inside this cell_  
 _Surrounded by these demons_  
 _And the fiery gates of hell_  
 _I blame my mother and my father_  
 _For the man that I've become_  
 _I was born into this family_  
 _I was born the devil's son_

 

****

_Toulon, 1803_

Javert has not been at the _bagne_ long- a few months only. But already he has somewhat of a reputation with the other guards.  


“Who, Javert?” Laughs Rémy as he deals out another hand of cards. “The boy has no heart.”  


Javert is part of neither the game nor conversation. He sits in the corner of the guardroom, in the midst of polishing his boots before his shift. He looks up guardedly upon hearing his name.  


Lanky Masson notices him then, turning to regard him with a grin. “Well, Javert? Have you one?”  


Javert’s brow knits, caught between annoyance at the idiotic question and respect due men who by virtue of seniority are his superiors. _“Monsieur?”_ he manages hesitantly.  


The others have all turned to him at this point, grinning good-naturedly. Their teasing is not malicious and yet it nettles Javert all the same. He has never known camaraderie and does not understand its purpose here, in a prison.  


“We are speaking of women,” explains Lucroy with a vague gesture, cards dangling loosely between grubby fingers.  


"Yes,” interrupts Rémy, “Masson says you are so quiet about it because of shyness. But I say you simply have no heart.”  


Javert keeps his eyes on his hands as he begins to refasten his boots. He feels his mouth dry up; he has known for several years now why his attentions never fall on women. “I am still learning here. I am too tired after my duties to do aught but sleep.” He does not acknowledge the fact that this scarce explains how the other guards have plenty of time for such activities. By now they’ve surely noticed his lack of enthusiasm for their dirty anecdotes and jokes.  


“See!” Exclaims Rémy, turning back to the rickety table with a triumphant flop of dirt blond hair. “The boy’s chest is empty. Surely any doctor checking for a pulse would think him a corpse.”  


“Well, there’s no denying he’s hard for his age. Hasn’t batted a lash since he’s been here. Not even when he found that _bagnard_ with his throat all bit out.”  


Javert tries not to rankle at being talked about as if he’s not present. As he laces his left foot in tightly he suppresses a shudder at the memory. Morning rounds of the _salles,_ a figure prone on the ground. Red smear, iron stench, head lolled to the side with only a great chasm to tell where a throat once was. His chain partner next to him, chin horribly red.  


He shifts to the next boot. In truth, the incident had disturbed him greatly. To see first hand what these scum were capable of was sickening, though as a boy in the galleys he had seen his fair share of horrors. It was through shock alone he had seemed so calm, but all the same his coolness had led to the other guards’ respect. To be numb to the actions of those they guarded was to be strong.  


“I don’t see what a heart has to do with _grisettes_ anyways,” proclaims Lucroy as he shuffles his cards aimlessly. Masson elbows him with a conspiratorial grin just as Javert finishes with his laces.  


“Well, the blood has to be pumped to your cock somehow, doesn’t it?”  


The others burst into laughter, but Javert has to hide a twitch of distaste by standing to shrug into his great coat.  


He knows Masson as a duty shirker and frequenter of the town’s whores, and he can’t help disliking him for it. Such acts were meant for man and wife, this Javert knows. His urges may be especially heinous, but at least he is disciplined enough to suppress them.  


Javert can see from the piggish crinkle of Masson’s eyes that he has thought of another piece of lewd wisdom, but as his thick spittle-slick lips open, another guard bursts in the door. It is short little Benoit, looking quite mad.  


All present spin in their seats in surprise; Benoit is out of breath, cap askew and chest heaving. There is a strange spray of blood across his double-breasted uniform.  


“Ben, what is it?” Queries Rémy, already half from his seat. Javert’s ears have pricked, fingers curling in on his palm. Something has happened.  
Benoit’s eyes trail between them.  


“It is 24601. He’s been caught again, trying to escape.”  


There’s a murmur amongst them. Javert frowns; there are so many prisoners, it is rare for a number to be known so well by guards not directly responsible for that man’s work detail. But an unmistakable excitement thrums in the others, as if on the scent of some great sport.

 ----------------- 

The square has been packed; prisoners and guards alike have been crowded in, _bagnards_ in their red vests arranged in rows before a whipping scaffold. Javert’s eyes sweep over the assembled faces in confusion.  


Facing away from them and hung by his wrists is a man, broad-backed and head bent. He has been stripped of all but his trousers, and in the typical fashion he is suspended so that his toes just barely reach the ground. Thus his body is forced to stretch completely if he wishes to relieve his wrists. Rémy and the others herd Javert forward, pressing his lower back insistently with their hands. “Come, come,” murmurs Rémy, “you’re surely in for a show tonight.”  


“I don’t understand,” returns Javert as the others break off to pace along the groups of inmates, checking chains and speaking with the guards already here. Rémy motions to be followed, and Javert keeps pace with him. “If he is merely to be whipped I have seen it before, but why are so many others here?” Usually it is only those in the same work group as an offender who are made to watch punishment, for the sake of practicality. But the contents of several _salles_ seem to be here, being neatly arranged by cudgel wielding guards.  


“Ah, but this is the one they call _Jean-le-crique._ This is not the first time he’s tried to escape, and he’s well known for causing trouble. We’re to make a special example of him.”  


Javert frowns. “Is he sentenced to life?” Relatively few at the _bagne_ wear the green denoting such a fate, but he sees no other reason a man would run so many times when it would only elicit a longer sentence.  


“No. He’d have been gone two years ago, if not for the escapes.”  


They’ve reached the center of the gathering, a scant dozen yards from 24601. They both stop next to the wolfish Gérard, who holds the lash ready in his hand. Javert does not know what to do; the whole thing is arranged quite differently from the floggings he’s seen thus far, and so he elects merely to stand still and straight until he’s given an order. He avoids looking at 24601. Something about the nervous energy that thrums through the crowd causes his gut to clench terribly in anticipation.  


“Javert” murmurs Rémy with a slow smile, “wait here.” He and Gérard step off to speak in low voices, and Javert’s eyes swing finally to the figure on the post.  


It is evident from 24601’s back that what they say is true; he has been lashed many times before, more than is typical of the _bagnards._ The scars of whippings past run across a broad and finely muscled back, licking over hulking shoulders. Even his scalp bears marks, no doubt from the notoriously careless shavers, pink slashes visible through closely cropped uneven hair. On his shoulder the brand TF for _travaux forces_ proves Rémy’s assertion that the man is not a lifer.  


Javert swallows tightly. Merely seeing this back is enough to jog his memory. In his first months here Javert has been switched around between several shifts, and he has seen 24601 on one of his supervisions of a chain gang, he is sure of it. He cannot quite recall the face, but something about the man’s build is so familiar to him, meaning his eyes must have wandered to this particular convict more than once during his shifts. The number rings through his mind like a bell. 24601.  


He feels a strange compulsion to look on the brute’s face and confirm this supposed familiarity; perhaps that would quell the warm fascination beginning to roll through his body.  


Yes, Javert has a “heart” as the others would term it. Merely a prettified way of saying _lust_ , of saying _want._ No, the dainty _grisettes_ do not stir him. But shamefully, men, men like this one do; men with a power in their limbs that is preternatural, all muscle and angle.  


His face is damnably hot. To feel so in regard to a prisoner is— he tries to convince himself he admires in the same way he would a fine draft horse. A beast suited for the hard labor he is assigned. But there is something about the figure before him, a presence that is fascinating in another way. The toned back is a straight line despite the bruises already littering his skin from capture, the sides heaving in and out like a caged lion.  


Javert starts when something brushes his arm, eyes flicking guiltily over to Rémy as he thrusts Gérard’s lash into his grasp. He looks down at it dumbly.  


“Well boy, you’ve yet to do a whipping.”  


“I thought that Gérard—“  


Gérard steps up to interrupt with a sneer. “See? The boy can’t handle it.”

Javert’s hand clenches angrily around the tarred cord he holds. That word again, “boy.” He knows the real reason Gérard is so petulant, for he has seen the man give lashings twice already. In fact, the man always seems on the verge of volunteering to do so for even the most minor offences. He is one of the brutish louts who enjoys the task unnaturally, taking sadistic pleasure in the pain they inflict. He is as bad as the prisoners they guard, acting on base instinct. The lash is to uphold rule and cow these beasts, it is not to entertain.  


“Nonsense, Javert has use his cudgel perfectly fine thus far,” insists Rémy. “He’s as tough as any I’ve seen. The boy’s got to do this sometime.”  
Javert sets his jaw and spins on his heel, stalking towards 24601. That word again, boy, boy, always boy. Javert will show them, show that he is a man. Does he not earn a man’s pay, do a man’s work?  


“24601” he calls calmly, voice oscillating with the force of his steps. He halts when within reasonable distance, boots scuffing in the dirt. “The punishment for an escape attempt is twenty lashes followed by time in the _cachot._ ” He can feel the eyes of the other _bagnards_ and guards hot on his back. The lash creaks as he uncurls it. The night wind bites his cheek coolly, carrying with it the ever-present stench of salt and unclean bodies.  


The first stroke vibrates up Javert’s arm. The strong back stretched taught before him quakes, but there is not the usual scream. He brings his arm back and another blow lands. The yard around him has gone quiet. Again, a silent jerk with the impact.  


His teeth creak with the fury in which he clenches them. Red welts mark his strikes, making it clear he is hitting hard enough, and yet 24601 is silent. Gérard laughs boorishly from somewhere behind him.  


After a few more blows sweat is pricking at his brow and neck. His arms already tire, but he refuses to face the ignominy of shedding his greatcoat or trading off the lash to another guard. It is not uncommon to do so, but Javert thinks it a tarnish on his authority.  


24601 is bleeding now, slick lines of red. Javert’s stomach roils at the sight, but he resumes his task with grim determination.  


Halfway through and still the brute is silent. Gérard is whispering and snickering with another guard. The word flashes through his mind again as a stroke lands. Boy. A boy would be too weak to rise above his foul blood. A boy would be unable to stomach the task of punishing a monster such as this.  


Javert does not know when he started panting so, but lash fifteen comes with a grunt. 24601 convulses awfully now with each blow, head snapping back and feet struggling to keep himself grounded. His muscles ripple obscenely even through the blood, turning Javert’s mouth sour.  


He is finally making noise now, not screams but the plaintive bellows of a wounded dog. Yet he does not faint. Javert tastes salt and bile when strokes eighteen and nineteen cause sliced skin to drape away from muscle. His own back is completely drenched in sweat now, soiling his shirt and threatening to seep through even his greatcoat.  


His heart hammers as he winds back for the final lash. His limbs are as of lead, impossibly heavy and dull and the world on the edges of his vision shimmers with his fatigue. To whip a man with the proper force is a great taxation.  


A crack and wet slap, a horrible animal howl, and it is done. He tries not to look at the ruts he has left in flesh. His hand flexes around the lash. The courtyard remains silent. Something compels him suddenly to walk forward, a need to prove to himself that he is not scared. That this strange repulsion is at the sight of blood only, just like the incident with the dead man in the _sale_ , rather than from any knowledge that he was the one who drew the blood forth.  


He prays again that he is steady as he strides around the mess of slick flesh, rounding to face the animal he has disciplined. He has to see— has to look in the eyes of 24601. Javert is no boy. He will face the _bagnard_.  


What he sees—  


He blanches. He knows he does, and yet he also knows that his face remains perfectly stiff, as he has schooled himself to do.  


The man is as powerful looking from the front as from the back. Yes, Javert knows for certain now that he has seen him before on the chain gang, broad chest thatched dark with hair below the v of his red smock. But he has never looked with any cognizance of what his eyes beheld until now.  


The thickly bearded face is drawn in pain, teeth bared. But at Javert’s approach the wild eyes shoot open, the head falling forward to stare down at him appraisingly. 24601 licks cracked lips, and much to Javert’s surprise, manages a croaking “So it was the new guard they used. You gave me twenty strokes.”  


Around them, guards have already begun mobilizing the _bagnards_ now that the demonstration has ended. Javert is thankful that the bustle and clank of chains conceals this exchange. “Twenty lashes is the regulation punishment,” he clips in annoyance. He is sore and sweaty and oddly nauseous from delivering the aforementioned punishment. Of course it was twenty.  


24601’s responding grin is wild, terrifying. Javert’s hand clenches round the lash instinctively and he realizes dully that even despite the callouses of a hard life he has blistered from the twenty strokes. “Many would have ‘miscounted.’ I expected forty.”  


Javert’s eyes flit to where two guards approach with a basin of brine. “Twenty is the just punishment” he manages mechanically. “Twenty is what you earned with your idiocy.” He registers that he is trying desperately to stand straight, to keep his stomach from revolting or his eyes from lowering. He reminds himself again, _a beast, a beast, you speak to a beast._  


The beast laughs, and Javert watches with terrible fascination as the sudden movement shoots a spasm of pain through the coarse features. Sweat winds down the impressive muscles leisurely, cutting paths through dirt. “And when has justice ever entered into this place?” the man finally manages.  
Javert bristles and draws himself up. “You brought yourself here, 24601” he sneers, thrusting his chin out. Deep within, he knows the rightness of the words. And yet his heart beats a staccato rhythm he does not understand.  


The _bagnard’s_ eyes flash with some righteous anger. _“My name”_ he growls, sending an inexplicable shiver down Javert’s back, _“is Jean Valjean.”_  


It takes Javert a moment to recover from the strange mixture of terror and awe this outburst sends through him. The animal magnetism of the shifting muscles and tendons stretched out before him— For a moment he feels pulled both forwards and back.  


He is being foolish. After all, what right has a prisoner to look so proud? What right has he to a name? Javert spares him one last look and steps away, to where the two guards have stopped with the brine. He can feel the eyes boring a hole into his back, can still see the gaunt harshness of a face transformed by years of labor. He nods curtly to the other guards, watches them hoist a bucketful of saltwater and heave it over Valjean’s— 24601’s— back.  


The howl this produces is ear-splitting, the way the convict shakes and tenses and flops uselessly closing Javert’s lungs in iron. The brine is painful on a raw and bleeding back, but the easiest method of preventing infection. As much as infection can be prevented in the cesspool that is Toulon. And besides, here they have no short supply of seawater for this task.  


He watches saltwater sluice off blood and dirt, tracing drips over the ridged back. It is strange, that he has so marked a man he before watched out of subconscious desire. Surely it is a sign, this literal beating of temptation. Surely it is a lesson, to assist in marring this man. He promises himself resolutely that if he looks on 24601 again all he will see is blood and sweat mingled in the dirt, all that he will hear when those lips part are the grunts of injury and suffering.  


He watches a moment more as Rémy walks back over to offer a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. “I knew you had it in you. Didn’t even have to take a break, did you?” Javert is normally so hungry for praise, starved for it as for bread, but it is not pride he feels when he looks upon his handiwork. It is a strange resignation to the life he sees before him.  


Someone has taken the whip by the time he turns to go, but he does not know who or when. Behind him there is a thump as 24601 is cut down, and then the sound of chains.  


In Javert’s years at Toulon thereafter, he is always sure to say 24601. He teaches himself to relish the cold and clinical sound of each number as his tongue clips them. It is the only way to keep Valjean from his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Terms used:  
>  _Bagne_ = Prison  
>  _Bagnard_ = Prisoner  
>  _Grisette_ = A young working woman, often coquettish.  
>  _Salle_ = The buildings in which the prisoners slept. Unlike what most people picture in a prison, the _salles_ were not divided into cells but instead were large rooms in which prisoners bunked together.  
>  _Travaux forces_ = Hard labor. TF was branded on inmates assigned to hard labor, while TFP denotes hard labor for life.  
>  _Cachot_ = Essentially solitary confinement. In _Les Miserable_ Hugo seems to describe the _cachot_ as being like a dungeon, where the convict is "double-chained" (chained to a wall rather than being able to walk freely.)


End file.
